


Relax, Have a Drink With Me

by dreamlittleyo



Series: I'm Not Sorry (Kinky Dice Oneshots) [13]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Boss/Employee Relationship, Drugged Sex, Everything is awful, Evil!Washington, Explicit Sexual Content, Fuck Or Die, Gaslighting, M/M, Manipulation, Mind Games, Possessive Behavior, Power Imbalance, Rape, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:55:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23028916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: Washington has coveted Alexander since the day he hired the driven young man. Despite all his wealth and power—despite the literal star systems under his control—Washington has resisted taking what he wants. He's played a slower game, determined to not only have Alexander, but keep him. When the perfect opportunity presents itself, Washington makes his move. It's a vicious gamble, but one he is ready to see through.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/George Washington
Series: I'm Not Sorry (Kinky Dice Oneshots) [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1073049
Comments: 117
Kudos: 267





	1. Chapter 1

George Washington is a patient man.

He has to be. It's a talent he's honed through stubborn persistence, necessary when it comes to a business enterprise spanning multiple star systems. The power he has accumulated is subtle, and complete, and he would not possess it at all if he'd rushed any stage of his career.

He is a force to be reckoned with now. There's not a single diplomat, monarch, or military leader within three quadrants who would defy him. Above reproach in the public eye, he commands commerce and politics both, mostly from the shadows where he conducts his less commendable deals. There is nothing beyond his control.

No.

That's not entirely true.

There is _almost_ nothing beyond his control. But Washington is a patient man, and he's never accepted failure. Delays are inevitable. Surmountable. And if he covets something that doesn't belong to him, well. It's only a matter of finding the right leverage to make that something—or _someone_ —play by his rules.

In the case of Alexander Hamilton, Washington possesses the key, but the task still requires all the patience he can muster.

For two years Alexander has been a constant distraction. Hiring him has proven the single best staffing decision Washington ever made. The ambitious young man is smart, focused, and desperately overqualified for the position of secretary. He also quickly showed himself to be obsessively loyal, with just a glimmer of hero-worship thrown in for good measure.

It's this worshipful glimmer Washington has been nurturing since day one. Deliberate. Calculated. He has meted out praise sparingly, always when Alexander is most desperate to hear it. He has expanded the boy's duties exponentially, increasing his pay but offering no boost in status. No promotion. He's kept him close and made no secret of finding Alexander indispensable.

Beyond the professional, Washington has guarded his intentions more closely. When Alexander first joined his office, the boy would surely have run at any overt proposition. He would've spooked all the more quickly if he understood just how completely Washington ached to possess him. Washington's infatuation with the boy was immediate. The instant he laid eyes on the stubbornly earnest face, he'd known Alexander belonged to him.

Body, mind, soul: Washington knew he would possess them all in time. He would cut the hands off anyone who dared to touch his boy.

He has moved slowly since then. Alexander's mind and soul are long since captured—budding hero worship transformed into something infinitely more devoted—but Alexander's body is still an unclaimed prize, and Washington is leery of moving too fast. If he glimpses too soon the violent possessiveness consuming Washington, no amount of carefully cultivated devotion will prevent him from running.

It does not help that the young man is a charming goldmine of inexperience. One wouldn't know it to look at him. The way he flirts, mostly with women. The glint of heat and promise Washington has witnessed—in moments of jealous torture—seeing _his boy_ turn such attention on other people. Somehow he resisted the urge to retaliate. It wasn't time yet. He could not show his hand too soon.

Yet for all his talk, Alexander never goes home with the targets of his flirtations. Never invites them back to the sparse quarters he so rarely sleeps in himself. All bark, no bite. A guileful tease, and Washington can't even tell if the boy does it on purpose.

Alexander is maddening, and perfect, and Washington will not rest until that perfection is entirely his.

The opportunity that breaks this one-sided stalemate comes not entirely by accident. Washington doesn't travel often. He despises business trips. There's little he loathes more than leaving his carefully crafted seat of power, with all its attendant conveniences. But expanding his business holdings into an entirely new quadrant requires finesse and personal attention.

He could delegate the task to Alexander. His boy would not disappoint him. But the one thing Washington has grown to hate even more than interstellar travel, is sending his boy away for weeks at a time. Alone. Far beyond his reach. The idea is dreadful, and Washington would rather oversee the details and negotiations himself with Alexander at his side.

That's why they are here. Draxis III. Third moon of Dra'ax, a colony with pretensions of grandeur and a space port to match. Washington will concede it is a comfortable place to do business. He will enjoy taking this solar system for himself and gradually expanding into the sector beyond.

The alert comes when he is alone. Priority gold, security lockdown. Not just for the city-port where he and Alexander are staying, but for the entire moon. An unknown substance has been detected by dome-wide sensor sweeps. More information will be shared as it becomes available.

This. _This_ is why Washington loathes travel. Incompetence and interference, and nothing he can do about them. Some customs official did not perform a job adequately, and there is nothing Washington can do to see them appropriately punished. He can't even contact inside sources for the additional information they must surely already possess, because this is not his domain. Not yet.

Washington contacts Alexander and orders his immediate return to the hotel, the seventy-first floor of which is a penthouse for their exclusive use.

"I'll get there as soon as I can," Alexander promises.

"I said _now_. Not soon." He keeps the anger out of his voice, opting for a wry tone instead. He doesn't even know what this mysterious substance is.

"Sir, they've started shutting down whole lines of transport. I don't know _how_ I'm going to reach you yet. I'm working on it."

"Just get here." The words are clipped and emphatic, and Washington shuts the comm line down before he can say anything further. Before the icy frustration in his voice can take on more potent heat. Alexander will return as quickly as possible. Washington's anger will not bring him back faster.

The second alert comes all of ten minutes later. Substance identified. Risk level ten. The name of the chemical is a convoluted string of syllables Washington has never heard before, but the explanation that follows is enlightening. Parsing layer upon layer of dry scientific jargon, Washington deciphers: it's a drug. Dangerous. Designed to trigger heightened and prolonged sexual arousal in its victims. If left unattended—unsatisfied—an affected body could literally die from the buildup of secondary toxins. Self-stimulation is not a remedy.

It sounds improbable in every way. Too good to be true. Washington does a quick but thorough dig through local chemical research channels and discovers the alert has reported every particular with unflinching accuracy.

He needs to get his hands on a sample of this drug, and he needs to do it before Alexander returns.

Small miracle that he succeeds. In his own office, his own home, his own center of power he would have the drug in hand within moments. Here in this unfamiliar city where nobody knows him, it's more difficult. He needs to move more discreetly than ever, lest someone retrace his steps. His reputation would will if someone discovers him trading in illegal chemicals, let alone suspects his intended use of the drug.

By the time Alexander returns, Washington has obtained what he needs. His boy looks exhausted and filthy. There's blood on his shirt. Washington should never have let him out to socialize, damn this colony and its lauded nightlife.

"What in God's name happened to you?" Washington's brow furrows and he sets down the glass of juice in his hand. He rises from his chair, crossing the room, and the worry on his face is not a front.

Alexander gives him a tired look. "The blood's not mine. I was on the fucking dance floor when the first alert came through. Apparently these things are _always_ bad news, so people flipped out."

"But you're not hurt?" Washington checks.

"I'm fine," Alexander mutters. "But I could use a shower."

"Of course." Washington falls back. "Of course, my boy. And if you're too tired to work…" He lets the words hang unfinished, because he knows damn well Alexander won't admit any such thing. Never mind that Washington already gave him the night off. Now that the word 'work' has been spoken aloud, stubborn pride will win out.

"I can work." Alexander's spine straightens and his eyes glint. "Whatever you need."

Washington gives a humoring smile. "Go. Shower. The work will wait until you're comfortable at least." Then, expression sobering, he asks, "Did you drink anything while you were out? Did you eat?"

"I… Yeah. I had a couple drinks. But I was careful, there's no way anyone…" Alexander tapers off uncertainly, and Washington seizes on the hint of doubt.

"Are you _absolutely certain_?" He knows his boy will have parsed every word of the second alert. Alexander is nothing if not attentive to fine details. "There's a medic on staff downstairs. We could—"

"What difference will a medic make?" Alexander interrupts with a first hint of fear. "If I'm clean, I'm clean. If someone _did_ dose my drink, there's not much a medic can do."

"At least drink some water now that you're back." Little good that will do either, but that's not the point. "Or— here." Washington turns for the end table beside his empty chair. His own glass sits at the edge, the juice inside bright and red and opaque. It's delicious. He ordered it for precisely this purpose.

There is a pitcher at the center of the end-table, barely half full of the same bright liquid, and a second glass sitting empty on the other side. Washington takes the empty glass and pours in most of the pitcher's contents. Sets the pitcher down again with a clink, and hands Alexander the drink.

"This won't help either," Alexander points out sullenly even as he accepts the juice. But he doesn't try to refuse. Just raises the glass to his lips and drains it in one slow, steady go. Washington doesn't even have to admonish him to finish the whole thing. By the time Alexander sets the glass down there isn't a drop left.

"I'm sure everything's fine," Washington says with an approving nod. "Go. Get cleaned up. We can look at tomorrow's negotiation points when you're done. I had a couple more thoughts about Regulen's stock structure and how we might turn it to our advantage."

Alexander looks more at ease after he re-emerges into the main room of the suite, clothing changed, towel-dried hair unruly. He's opted out of the tie and remained barefoot, but otherwise he is clothed for business rather than sleep. Washington has already sent the remaining juice and glassware away with the hotel staff; no reason to tempt fate. He sits now at the narrow table beside an expansive window, screens of data projecting tomorrow's work.

A heartbeat—Alexander looking at him a moment too long—and then his boy is settling in the chair opposite where the second data port waits. More screens project as Alexander activates the interface, cluttering the workspace and filling the room with familiar patterns.

"Okay," Alexander says. "So. Tell me about these Regulen stocks and how we can leverage them."


	2. Chapter 2

They dive into their work, minds unified in this task. Even after they fall silent, reviewing separate lengthy contract language, there are well-worn paths between them. Teamwork honed through two years of living and breathing the same professional goals, and an understanding that transcends the spoken word.

Washington is impressed when it takes nearly an hour for Alexander to grow restless. He researched every scrap of information he could find on the drug before enacting his plan—he had no intention of needlessly endangering something precious to him—and he knows how quickly the toxins take effect. It's a testament to Alexander's stubbornness that he perseveres so long.

The silence is different now. Washington senses Alexander's guileless eyes drilling into him across the table, through half a dozen glowing data projections. He pretends not to notice, allowing the boy to take him in. His chest warms and his heart beats faster, but he ignores these things for the moment. Focuses on revising a section of the clause before him, wondering all the while what Alexander is thinking.

A shiver runs the length of his spine when Alexander's lips part, tongue sneaking between them. It has the look of a completely unconscious gesture.

When Alexander's gaze jerks sharply away, Washington allows himself to raise his head and ask, "What's wrong?"

Alexander gives a start at the question, eyes widening. Caught-out. It's a delicious expression, accompanied by a warm flush, and Washington slips one hand beneath the table so that he can clench his fist out of sight. Willing himself to patience he does not feel.

He keeps every indication of calm in his voice when he starts, "If you're too tired to continue—"

"No." The interruption comes out harsh, and Alexander seems only belatedly to notice his tone and measure it. "That's not— I don't… I'm not tired."

Washington furrows his brow. "Are you sure? We can stop. These revisions aren't urgent. We have plenty of ammunition for the negotiation tomorrow." He pauses only for a moment—long enough for Hamilton's eyes to catch him and dart quickly away—and then says, "Alexander?" Injecting layers of protectiveness and quiet worry into the coveted syllables.

Alexander stares, long and hard and silent. Hungry. This time when he snaps out of it, it's with a jolting push to his feet. Up from the table, palms braced on the smooth black surface. His hair is a mess, barely restrained in the elastic band the boy favors, strands escaping and giving him an almost manic air.

"I'm sorry." Alexander sounds every bit as flustered as he looks. "I… Maybe I am tired. I should—"

He has to move past the table to reach his suite off the main room, and Washington has no trouble catching his arm on the way past. Drawing the boy up short, holding on just a little too tightly when Alexander tries to jerk away and keep moving.

Washington feels an almost violent tremble beneath his grip, and his cock stirs. Too eager. He wills the wave of arousal back.

He wonders if he'll have to nudge Alexander the right direction. If some ill-advised instinct for martyrdom will otherwise kick in and send his boy running, requiring a more calculated pursuit. He's confident even so he can turn this the way he wants it to go, but staring up into Alexander's face now, he cannot guess what the next several seconds will entail.

Then, so abruptly Washington doesn't have time to react, Alexander is in his lap. Restless weight settles astride Washington's thighs—the chair he's sitting in is not particularly well designed for two—and there's an even stronger trembling in the hands that frame his face. Alexander's mouth on his is desperate and clumsy, and Washington resists the urge to respond to the kiss. Every instinct screams at him to take command, to guide it into something better.

Instead he sets his hands lightly at Alexander's hips—a loose grip intended to convey hesitant questions—and stays perfectly still.

It doesn't take Alexander long to ease back when these fumbling intimacies are not returned. His eyes are wide, his mouth ajar. He has not put nearly as much space between them as he should, has not dropped his hands from Washington's face. He looks stunned, and guilty, and utterly lost.

"Sir?" That one syllable comes out faintly terrified. Comprehension is catching up grudgingly through whatever fog has already begun to cloud the boy's faculties.

Washington raises a hand to Alexander's forehead, feels the fever burning beneath smooth skin. "Oh, my dear boy." He keeps all hint of satisfaction from his tone. "What have you gotten yourself into?"

Alexander scrambles up from his lap, and Washington lets go. He is half-certain the boy will complete his dash for privacy—that Washington will have to coax him out from behind a locked door—but Alexander must recognize how futile such a retreat would be. Or perhaps he is still coherent enough to realize isolating himself can only result in disaster. He's had access to the same information as Washington. Not the extra research, but every word included in the official alert notices from the city. This is not a problem one can handle alone.

Anticipation sings in Washington's blood as he takes in every unsteady movement. Alexander stops before one of the enormous windows looking out on the vast horizon. The sky above is dark, but lights glint along the streets and buildings far below. Washington has no interest in the view. He is far more interested in the frantic, shivering image his boy presents in this moment.

He rises to follow Alexander. Approaches without touching. He doesn't have to say a word as their eyes meet in the darkened reflection. They both know exactly what this is.

Washington shapes his expression into a calculated balance of fear, uncertainty, hesitation. "What do you need?"

Delicate fingers curl uselessly against the window, fingerprints smudging smooth glass. Alexander's eyes fall shut, and Washington wonders if the boy will demure. Refuse his help. Perhaps offer to remove himself from the room and go search for satisfaction elsewhere. It would not be the first time Alexander has gone to unwieldy lengths to avoid importuning his employer.

Without opening his eyes, Alexander says, "I need to go. Find somebody."

Washington shakes his head even though Alexander can't see him. "You came back to me with someone else's blood all over you. I'm not letting you go back out there." Even if he _hadn't_ deliberately begun this chain of events, he would not allow Alexander to put himself in such unnecessary peril. Between the panic of the port denizens and the effects of this particular drug, it isn't safe for _anyone_ in public tonight.

Alexander blinks, stares at him in their reflection once more. Breathing hard. Shoulders painfully tight.

" _Tell me what you need_ ," Washington repeats with more force.

Without looking away Alexander breathes, "Help me."

It is all the invitation Washington requires. He crosses the slim distance still separating them and steps close along Alexander's back. He curls both hands at bony hips, more firmly this time. Grounding. Savoring the shiver that answers his touch.

Keeping his own arousal in check is among the most difficult challenges Washington has ever surmounted, but he can't very well have Alexander startling at the nudge of an uninvited erection—not this early in the game. Whether or not it would spook the boy, it would give away far more than Washington is ready to divulge. This cannot be about him.

He waits only a moment before slipping one hand forward, pressing his palm to Alexander's stomach. An offer and a promise. The touch earns another, harder shiver, and Alexander collapses against his chest with a sharp inhale. Wide eyes no longer seem to be _looking_ at anything as Alexander's palms flatten over the glass.

" _Breathe_ , Alexander," Washington admonishes, keeping his grip exactly where it is. "I've got you. You're going to be okay."

Alexander breathes a helpless sound and reaches down to cover the hand on his stomach. Barely a pause at all and then he's _pushing_ , downward, guiding the touch where he needs it. Washington allows himself to be directed, and prays the hitch in his breath is not too obvious as his hand slips between Alexander's thighs, finds the line of Alexander's cock—already hard and straining against the seam of expensive dress pants.

Alexander _keens_ as thick fingers cup him through fabric, hips bucking forward in search of friction.

"Okay," Washington soothes and shifts his hold. Presses the heel of his palm more firmly to the insistent bulge of arousal.

Alexander's hand atop his own presses even harder, grinding their combined touch frantically between his legs. Riding the sensation.

"That's it." Washington brushes the word along Alexander's jaw, not a kiss but nearly. "Take what you need. I'm right here."

A sob chokes from Alexander's throat and he thrusts into Washington's palm. It can't be enough leverage—it can't be _enough_ —and Washington shifts his weight. Crushes Alexander forward against the window, possessiveness in the way he presses all along the boy's back, though even now he manages to keep his own interest in the proceedings at bay. He squeezes Alexander's cock and earns another gasping sob, another forward thrust of hips.

This must be a better angle this way. Their hands are trapped now, between the cool press of glass and the needy inferno of Alexander's body. All the better for Alexander to rub off against him, taking exactly what Washington is offering, rutting into the cupped invitation of the broad hand between trembling legs.

" _Please_ ," Alexander groans, clinging with bruising strength. "Oh god, sir, please—"

"You're doing just fine," Washington murmurs. He risks pressing an actual kiss to Alexander's throat, quick and fleeting. "Keep going. You're so close." It could be a lie. He honestly doesn't know how close orgasm is, but he grinds his heel down hard. Encouraging. Urging his boy onward.

It lasts longer than he expects. Long enough for agony to tinge the moans Alexander tries to choke back. Washington knows his boy is overstimulated. That this is simultaneously too much and _not enough_ —Alexander needs more than a firm hand between his thighs. He needs to be held down, pleasured, fucked. He needs to be taken care of.

But he also needs to choose for himself how their intimacies unfold, an illusion of control in the face of the unstoppable contagion affecting his body. If Washington presses too far, too fast, the victory will be fleeting and the results disastrous.

Eventually Alexander comes, his whole body going rigid between Washington's bulk and the window. A sharp cry fills the quiet room, and Washington presses all the more solidly along Alexander's back. Pinning him in place, steadying him, trapping him as shudders wrack the boy's too-thin frame.

He thinks he hears a whispered, " _Sir_ ," but that could be wishful thinking.

The seconds that follow are delicious torture. New tension fills Alexander in the resounding silence, but he makes no move to push out from where he is sandwiched between cool glass and unrelenting body heat. Washington holds perfectly still. His hand—which Alexander still grips tightly—remains in its intimate position. Both men are breathing hard, though Alexander's chest rises and falls more quickly, lungs moving harsh and shallow and panicked.

"Are you all right?" Washington asks without easing back. His chin is pressed over Alexander's shoulder, but he can't see the boy's face at this angle. They're both pressed against the window, crushed too tightly together.

When his own cock threatens to make its interest known, Washington abruptly withdraws. More hastily than he intends—he doesn't want to give Alexander any reason to doubt the sincerity of his offer of help—but he doesn't go far. Just a step in retreat, his hands hanging at his sides as he takes in the sight of his boy still braced awkwardly against the window. Alexander's forehead is pressed to the glass. His hair tie is long gone and dark strands cascade messily down to his shoulders. His spine carries painful tension.

"Talk to me, Alexander." Washington injects fear and just a tinge of hurt into his tone, and is gratified when Alexander rouses a little. "Did I hurt you?"

The bark of laughter that follows is vicious and self-deprecating, and a moment later Alexander turns to face him, slouching against the window. Those dark eyes are still cloudy. Alexander's need is nowhere near spent—the ordeal before them has barely begun—and Washington's blood heats possessively at the prospect.

"Did you _hurt me_?" Alexander echoes in a tone of unmistakable disbelief. "Are you joking?"

Washington narrows his eyes. "There's no need to be flippant."

Wordless apology flashes and Alexander says in a chastened voice, "You didn't hurt me. I'm okay. I'm— Thank you."

They regard each other for several endless seconds, tension winding and knotting between them. Washington wonders what his boy is thinking. Usually he can tell—they have worked so closely together—but he has no point of reference for this. The events he's set deliberately in motion are unprecedented. It's clear enough Alexander has regrets, but harder to tell if he is angry. Impossible to decipher if he resents Washington for touching him, or if he is truly grateful for the relief, however temporary.

The stalemate must break eventually, and it's Washington who speaks. He takes a single step forward. Crowding the very edges of Alexander's personal space, careful not to give any suggestion of intending to _touch_.

"You'll sleep in my bed tonight," he announces, authority in every syllable.

Alexander startles and stands straighter. "I can't do that, sir. I've already asked too much of you."

"We both know this isn't over. I'd just as soon keep you close."

Alexander swallows uncertainly. "This isn't necessary. I can sleep in my own bed. I don't want to be a burden."

Washington levels his boy with a knowing look, "And will you actually come to me if you need help during the night? Or will you try to suffer through it alone, consequences be damned?"

Alexander gives a guilty start but doesn't answer.

"That's what I thought." Washington shakes his head ruefully. "You are far too obstinate for your own good."

"Sir…"

"I know," Washington says softly. "I'm not angry, Alexander. But I have no intention of letting you martyr yourself. Get cleaned up and come to bed. You should rest while you can."

He knows, even before Alexander nods, that his boy is going to obey.


	3. Chapter 3

It's into the smaller suite that Alexander vanishes, but Washington makes for his own larger rooms. He prepares for sleep himself, though sleep is the very last thing he intends to do. The fact that Alexander is almost certainly bathing at the other end of the suite has no impact on the temperature or pressure of the shower in Washington's washroom, and he takes his time. Enjoying the sluice of water across overheated skin, the knowledge that Alexander is surely doing the same.

The walls are thick, the washroom door securely shut, and so Washington decides to indulge himself. He's well-accustomed to keeping his voice down, and there is no reason _not_ to stroke a soap-slick hand down the length of his cock. Already hard. He's primed from a new abundance of sensory information. His boy in his arms. His boy gasping and whimpering aloud, desperate and full of pleading. His boy grinding against his cupped palm, seeking every scrap of offered pleasure.

These are all details Washington has imagined countless times, but the reality has proven even more delicious. They are memories he will cherish as he bides his time in anticipation of more.

Washington bites his lower lip to keep quiet as he strokes himself faster. This is good. It will be easier to keep his libido in check the next time he touches Alexander, if he has already come once.

And oh, he _will_ touch Alexander again. The boy will beg for Washington's hands, perhaps for his mouth. Perhaps for more. And Washington will maintain his facade of selfless cooperation as long as he can. By the time his own need becomes impossible to ignore, Alexander will be too frantic to care.

He comes silently, spilling over his fingers, and the water immediately washes away any vestige of proof.

When Washington emerges into his bedroom, dry and already wearing the soft sleep clothes he prefers—loose pants and short sleeves—Alexander is in his bed. Dressed similarly to Washington, though in shorts rather than sweats. The boy looks far too tense to be asleep, lying on one side at the farthest possible edge of the bed. Alexander makes no sound as Washington approaches, no acknowledgment even as a soft command lowers the lights to twelve percent.

It's dark enough for sleep, but light enough that Washington can still see his boy clearly. The better to keep an eye on him.

The better to see him properly when tightly held composure begins to fall apart.

Alexander is lying on top of the bedclothes rather than beneath the blankets, so Washington does the same. He fully expects Alexander to keep his distance—to keep Washington at arm's length as long as possible under the circumstances—but it seems he can no longer trust his predictions. Washington has barely set his head to the pillow before Alexander moves, sharp and sudden, invading his space and curling along Washington's side.

Fever burns hotter than ever beneath Alexander's skin, and he tucks his face against Washington's neck, presses as close as he can get without crawling directly on top of him.

"Already?" Washington eases onto his side and lets the boy press more soundly along his chest. He sweeps shower-wet hair from Alexander's face with a gentle touch.

Alexander's breath hitches and he burrows closer. His breath is hot at Washington's throat, his hands trapped restlessly between their chests. Thank god Washington had the forethought to get himself off before coming to bed; his arousal would already be damning him if he hadn't taken the edge off.

" _I'm sorry_ ," Alexander gasps.

"It's all right." Washington takes a sentimental chance and presses a kiss to Alexander's temple. When he draws back Alexander is staring at him with wide eyes, pupils blown alarmingly wide in the dimness. "Whatever you need. Anything, my boy. Don't be shy."

When Alexander just stares at him in helpless stillness, Washington takes a different chance. His hands tug his boy closer by the hips, negating what little space remains between them, nudging his knee into position. Alexander takes the hint quickly, legs parting, whole body rocking forward to rut against the offered thigh.

" _Fuck_." Alexander groans the word like a plea. There are teeth in Washington's shoulder now, fingers clinging to the back of his shirt as his boy rides against him. Grinding forward. Desperately chasing the edge of pleasure.

He comes fast this time, and Washington is honestly impressed. He thought so soon after the first time, Alexander would have to work for it. That he would need more proactive help than a thigh shoved between his legs and steady arms holding him.

Disappointing, but not at all troubling. There is still the rest of the night before them. Everything Washington has read says he will have plenty of opportunity for more.

"Do you think you can sleep now?" Washington asks when Alexander finally stops shaking. "At least for a while? You're exhausted."

"And filthy again," Alexander grumbles, sounding more like himself than he has since he first dropped astride Washington's lap.

Washington hopes his chuckle sounds strained enough to be appropriate for their present configuration: more an attempt at levity than true amusement, though amusement is what he feels. Even riding the brink of a potentially lethal drug that is stripping away his agency, Alexander still manages to sound dryly irritated at soiling his clothing. The boy always has been fastidious.

"Do you need to clean up?" Washington asks, not bothering to voice the _again_ implied in the question.

"Not much point, is there?" But a moment later Alexander extracts himself—grudgingly—from Washington's arms and climbs out of the bed. Rather than disappearing from the suite entirely, he ducks into the washroom. There's the quick sound of running water, the quiet slap of a cloth being abandoned in one of the sinks, and then his boy is returning. Crawling directly over him so he can fit himself right back into the circle of Washington's arms, back-to-chest this time.

Washington doesn't protest—he's delighted Alexander has returned to his arms instead of settling at the greatest possible distance—and he spoons all the closer, wrapping his arms around his boy. Alexander hums, a tired sound of pleasure that tells Washington how truly exhausted he is.

It seems a miracle that Alexander actually sleeps. But a handful of slowing breaths is all it takes before the compact body in Washington's arms becomes the dead weight of the truly unconscious.


	4. Chapter 4

_Washington_ does not sleep. He isn't even tempted. He lies perfectly still, but his senses are alert. Drowning in his boy. Reveling in the body cradled to his chest, the rise and fall of Alexander breathing, the barely banked inferno in exhausted limbs. This time when his cock begins to stiffen, Washington makes no effort to fight it. He is only a man; even if Alexander notices when he wakes, there's nothing unreasonable in Washington's body belatedly responding to everything.

Alexander's sleep remains untroubled for nearly an hour. Long enough for Washington's own need to become distracting. Even a patient man can grow restless. All the more so when Alexander shifts again, thoughtless, unintentional. Even fully unconscious the drug affects him, driving him to whimper softly through his dreams.

The movement offers maddening friction, the boy's well-shaped ass pressing against Washington's cock.

He reaches forward—brazen and risky—and finds Alexander aroused to rigidity beneath soft shorts. Alexander's breath hitches faster but he doesn't wake as Washington grinds forward. Too much fabric between them, but there's nothing to be done for it now. He can't very well strip Alexander in his sleep without igniting suspicion. Alexander is not an idiot; that is a very large part of the appeal.

Washington savors the quiet taunt of stolen pleasure. He ruts idly forward, loosely cupping the hard line of Alexander's cock. He offers no firmer pressure, but is nonetheless gratified by a faint moan of pleasure and a faster rise and fall of unsteady breath.

For nearly ten minutes he gets away with this before Alexander truly begins to stir.

Washington is prepared for this too. He stills his own movements as Alexander rouses groggily. Lets his hand fall loose, arm still draped over a bony hip. Brushing the boy's cock but no longer holding him. An accident of sleep. By the time Alexander's body goes stiff with sudden wakefulness, Washington has closed his eyes and steadied out his own breathing. His hips are motionless. He is patience incarnate. Nothing but Alexander's worried friend and employer, holding him close and keeping him safe.

He wonders if Alexander will wake him with renewed demands. Washington is certainly prepared to meet them. But there's an almost mindless quality to the way Alexander whimpers at an 'accidental' touch of Washington's wrist alongside his cock, and a moment later Alexander is grabbing and forcing Washington's hand between his thighs. Breathing a strangled moan as he rubs forward.

Washington responds with a sleepy moan. It's a calculated sound, just as calculated as the lazy roll of his hips. Leisurely enough to write off. He is asleep. Doesn't know who he is touching. Another understandable accident.

The thrust from behind him doesn't slow Alexander down. If anything he squeezes his grip tighter, rubs harder. Frustration in the effort now. Whatever it is he needs, he's clearly not getting it from this. Perhaps because he truly thinks Washington is asleep. An improbable quirk of the drug: the fever cannot be fought without help.

"Please," Alexander whispers into the silent bedroom. He bucks into Washington's hand and heaves a wounded sob. Then, arching along Washington's chest and throwing his head back against Washington's shoulder, "Sir, wake up. _Fuck_ , please wake up, I need you." Louder. Desperate. The hunger in Alexander's plea is enough to make Washington giddy.

He allows himself to stir. Stops the lazy roll of his hips. Makes a point of freezing as though only now aware of the frantic body writhing against him.

"Alexander, what's wrong?"

His boy chokes back another sob and says, "I can't do it myself. It's _not enough_."

" _Oh_." Washington squeezes his hand shut, stroking Alexander's cock. "You should have woken me sooner." The words are gentle. He doesn't want to convey anger.

He considers his options—he's not sure even with his wakeful assistance that his hand will be enough to satisfy Alexander this time—and what a delicious challenge that is. After a moment he draws his free arm from beneath the pillow under his head, and maneuvers it beneath Alexander's body. It's a simple enough matter to put _this_ hand between the boy's straining thighs, so as not to deprive him as Washington withdraws the arm draped over Alexander's hip.

"Tell me what you need." It's a cruel demand. He doesn't require Alexander to put desires into words in order to satisfy them. He certainly doesn't need guidance to figure out how _he_ wants to touch his boy.

But he loves the way the request makes Alexander's hips stutter. The helpless agony in the voice that answers, "I don't know. I can't… Please keep touching me. Anything, I don't care, just don't let go."

"Okay," Washington says. It's an open invitation—license to take even greater liberties—and he rucks Alexander's shirt up to skim a teasing touch along his stomach and chest. When he reaches a nipple, a brush of fingers is enough to send Alexander bucking helplessly against the hand between his legs.

Of course he is sensitive. Washington barely stifles a damning chuckle by pressing a hard kiss to Alexander's shoulder through his shirt. The contact probably goes unnoticed because, in the very same moment, Washington traces his thumb more firmly over Alexander's nipple, earning a louder cry of pleasure.

" _God_ ," Alexander groans, arching back and tossing his head. "Fuck, do that again."

Washington obliges. Then catches the nipple between thumb and forefinger, pinching hard. He grins into Alexander's shirt at the way the sting makes his boy writhe helplessly, probably unsure whether to register the sensation as pleasure or pain. Washington _twists_ , sharpening the sensation, and Alexander sobs aloud.

Both of Alexander's hands are clutching at the bedsheets, and there is stubborn ferocity in his voice when he pleads, "More, oh fuck, I need more."

"Yes," Washington says in a voice that does not sound nearly as strained as he feels. " _Breathe_ , Alexander. I've got you. I know what you need."

With no other warning, he lifts the boy just enough to tug Alexander's sleep shorts down his thighs. The arm still wedged beneath the boy's body is right where it needs to be, and he returns his hand to the space between Alexander's legs, this time curling steady fingers directly around naked cock. He can stroke properly at this angle, albeit not very much considering his arm is pinned. The effort earns him a muffled cry as Alexander shoves his face against a pillow and bucks forward.

Washington could leave it at this. Surely an escalation to skin against skin would be enough. But Alexander has already begged for more, and Washington eager to oblige. He gives Alexander's stiff nipple another vicious tweak before letting go in favor of touching the boy's mouth.

Alexander twists and gasps and asks, "S- Sir?"

"Open your mouth," Washington murmurs instead of simply pressing two fingers past parted lips.

Whether or not Alexander understands the purpose, he obeys the command. Opening wider for Washington's middle and index fingers to press inside. The boy's lips close around him, throat working in a convulsive swallow as the long digits stroke almost too deep. Careful not to choke him—even here, now, Washington does not want to scare him away.

"Get them wet for me." He gentles his voice with the words, tone more coaxing than command. A convincing illusion that he is not telling Alexander what to do, but asking for permission. When Alexander's tongue works along the digits, tasting and slicking them, it feels like an immeasurable victory.

" _Good boy_ ," Washington breathes, and Alexander shivers against him.

Another moment and Alexander's lips part once more as Washington withdraws his fingers. He gives his boy no warning at all before slipping his hand downward—questing between the cheeks of Alexander's ass—and penetrating him with both fingers simultaneously.

There is nothing gentle in the way Washington drives deeper, but the sound of Alexander's cry is unmistakable pleasure. Overwhelmed and startled, but pleasure just the same, as his cock gives an eager twitch beneath Washington's stroking grip.

Washington twists the digits inside Alexander's body—curls them to stroke in just the right place—then eases back. Barely. Just enough to hear Alexander breathe a soft, almost wounded groan.

" _Sir_ ," Alexander gasps when the touch withdraws a little further.

"Do you want more?" Washington asks, keeping the question kind only by force of will. _Want_ , he says. Not need. Deliberate, though it's an impossible distinction in this moment.

"Yes," Alexander pleads anyway. "Oh god, don't stop. Don't you fucking dare."

Washington thrusts his fingers forward, more drag than smooth as he buries them to the final knuckles in Alexander's distractingly tight body. His own cock aches, and it's with difficulty he forces his arousal to the back of his mind. Secondary. Irrelevant. He has more important draws on his attention.

He curls his fingers in Alexander's ass, twists them, scissors them wide as he drags his other hand along the straining length of cock. There must be pain alongside pleasure now—there is not nearly enough slickness for this—but Alexander seems genuinely not to care. His eyes are tightly shut, his lower lip caught between his teeth.

Once again Alexander's orgasm overtakes him suddenly, his entire body stretching taut as a shattered cry escapes him.

Washington strokes him through it, easing him down by degrees. Letting go when Alexander grunts a different sort of discomfort and shies away. The shying motion seems to abruptly remind him of Washington's fingers in his ass, and he breathes a weaker sound. Small and wrung dry and exhausted.


	5. Chapter 5

Washington withdraws the fingers as carefully as he can and is gratified when Alexander presses against him instead of trying to wriggle forward and away. No way to tell if it's the effects of the drug or if Alexander simply feels safe demanding every scrap of his attention, but Washington doesn't much care about the motivation so long as this is the result.

"Fucking hell." Alexander sounds wrecked and stunned. When Washington's arm encircles his waist, he shifts in the embrace, rolling his shoulders, heaving a tired sigh.

An instant later and Alexander abruptly freezes—pressed solidly against Washington's cock.

The sudden stillness is maddening.

"You're hard." The words carry genuine surprise, sneaking softly from Alexander's tongue. There's no reason for the boy to sound so disbelieving. It's not as though Washington is some sort of android to be unaffected by their activities.

"It doesn't matter," Washington says, sounding more defensive than he intends. "It's purely biology." A blatant lie. Biology is only one small part of how and why he craves this brilliant young man in his bed. His infatuation—his obsession—is elaborate, and fierce, and has as much to do with Alexander's clever mind and stubborn spirit as it does with his warm and distracting body.

That Washington has wanted for years to bend him over the nearest flat surface and mount him is only one piece of a more complicated attachment.

Silence stretches for several seconds before Alexander says, low but earnest, "I could do something about it."

_Oh_. Washington's breath catches and his eyes fall closed, and for just an instant his arm around Alexander's waist tightens. He lets go quickly, desperate to say yes, all too aware that he _must_ say no. If he wants any hope of using tonight, of crafting a forward path from the intimacies they've shared, he can't accept Alexander's ill-considered offer to pleasure him.

"Absolutely not." Washington coats the answer in a sternness he does not feel.

"But—"

" _No_ ," he snaps. Then says more gently, "Your judgment is compromised. You don't know what you're offering, and I certainly don't need your assistance when my own hand will suffice." He lets the implication hang clear in the air: _later_. He will see to his own satisfaction later. There is nothing urgent in this moment.

"But everything we're already doing..." Alexander protests. "I could get you off too. It's not fair for me to _use you_ like this and not even—"

"Shh," Washington interrupts. "I am _just fine_ , my boy. This isn't about what I need. Tell me what _you_ require and it's yours, but don't worry about me."

Alexander settles and exhales slowly. There is something grounding in the sound. An easing back from the precipice Washington just carried him over. The fever is still there—Washington can feel it thrumming beneath his boy's skin—but they've reached another momentary respite.

"The pajamas are stupid, aren't they?" Alexander grumbles at last. Something like shame burns beneath the words. "Why even bother when this goddamn drug is just going to work me up and make a mess of me all over again?" He moves jerkily, dragging himself away from Washington's arms. But when he sits up it's only to yank his shirt—soiled by his most recent orgasm—over his head and throw it to the floor. His sleep shorts follow an instant later, and Washington's mouth goes dry.

He's staring and he cannot help it. In two years he has caught only glimpses. Only in passing, and only thanks to a great deal of maneuvering. Suddenly he has Alexander _naked in his bed_ , knowingly if not willingly. And even though this view is not for his benefit, it is still enough to set his pulse racing.

Alexander catches him staring, but instead of looking angry the boy takes on a self-conscious air. "Is… this okay?"

Washington shakes himself and grudgingly averts his eyes. He does his best to look discomfited—a simple enough task considering how flustered this sudden turn has left him—when he answers, "Of course, Alexander. I told you. Whatever you need."

They are still both lying above the bedclothes, which means from the corner of his eye Washington still sees far too much naked skin as Alexander lies down once more. There is greater distance between them now, though Alexander still hasn't retreated all the way to the edge of the bed. It's as though, now that he's opted for the comfort of nakedness, he's reluctant to impose on Washington's personal space. Despite multiple orgasms and every carnal touch to transpire between them tonight, it seems this is a step too far.

Alexander watches him from just out of range, and Washington forces himself not to reach across the divide. He mirrors Alexander's pose but closes his eyes.The temptation to let his gaze wander is too great otherwise; his only recourse is to pretend sleep.

"Try to get more rest," he orders. "Wake me when it's time again."

For once Alexander does not answer.


	6. Chapter 6

This time, Washington sleeps too. He doesn't intend to. But the fatigue and late hour must get to him at last, because there are dreams—eager and aroused and nebulous—and when he wakes he's on his back. There's an unmistakable weight on top of him, an inferno of fever straddling and stretched along his body, pinning him to the bed.

It's an utterly delightful summons.

Even better is the drag of lips along his throat. The hot palm braced over his heart. The abortive little stutters of Alexander's hips seeking pleasure, clearly not finding what he needs.

"Sir." Alexander's voice is rough, and he sounds like he might be about to cry. "Sir, wake up."

Washington opens his eyes. The room is still dim—dawn _must_ be coming soon—but for the moment night is still complete around them. He raises his hands to Alexander's waist and grips tightly enough to still him. The restraint earns a low moan and then Alexander is pushing up from his chest, just far enough to meet his eyes.

The boy looks a mess. In the gloom the circles under his wild eyes look darker than ever, and sweaty hair clings to his temple. His lower lip is swollen as though he's been worrying it between his teeth, and he stares down at Washington with eloquent helplessness. He's shaking hard.

At the last moment Washington remembers exactly how he brought his boy to orgasm most recently, and raises only his clean hand to cup the boy's face.

"Again?" he asks mildly, trailing a thumb back and forth over Alexander's cheek.

Alexander nods and ducks his head to nuzzle at Washington's palm, eyes slipping shut.

"How long did we sleep?" He traces his thumb lower, along a trembling lower lip, and is gratified at the way Alexander's mouth opens as though on instinct. Inviting more.

"I didn't sleep," his boy confesses.

Washington resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Then how long did _I_ sleep?"

"Two hours? Maybe?"

Oh. Too long. Washington hardens his grip along Alexander's jaw and forces the boy's head up. Waits until Alexander opens _looks at him_ to ask, "And how long have you been in this agony waiting for me?"

Alexander swallows guiltily and does not answer.

The exasperated sigh Washington breathes is not for show. "Have you always been this stubborn?" It's a rhetorical question. He recognized Alexander's willfulness on their very first introduction. But it's also no surprise when Alexander answers anyway.

"Yes."

Washington does a poor job masking his shock when Alexander leans down to kiss him. It's a hesitant approach, careful and nudging. A nuzzle at his jaw, a flutter of lips at the corner of his mouth. A cautious expression as Alexander regards him through several weighty heartbeats. Asking without words if this is okay.

Just as silently Washington stares back as though to say _This? Is this what you need_?

Then Alexander's mouth is on his, demanding—a thrust of tongue in counterpoint to a stutter of friction elsewhere. Alexander's legs tighten to either side of his hips, bearing down. Grinding their mutual erections together through the silky fabric of sleep pants.

Washington gentles the kiss by degrees. He accepts and returns the exploring slide of tongue, nips at Alexander's swollen lower lip. Hungry as he is to take more violent control, he softens and eases instead. Letting Alexander set the pace, but guiding it somewhere calmer. Soothing his boy as a friend would rather than overpowering him as Washington yearns to.

The kiss breaks and Alexander ducks his head to nuzzle at Washington's throat—at his pulse point beating far too rapidly—breath warm and unsteady.

"Fuck me," Alexander breathes.

Washington freezes. Holds perfectly still for a handful of unwieldy seconds. Then bucks Alexander's weight off and to the side—follows—reverses their positions so that his own bulk covers his boy, pinning him securely to the mattress. He can still feel the maddening press of mutual arousal. Alexander's thighs are splayed wide, his body cradling Washington's broad hips without protest. He is holding determined eye contact, and he looks terrified that perhaps he has gone too far.

"Say that again," Washington demands in a measured tone. His skin is hot and he resents the fact that he is still clothed. Alexander trembles beneath him. The boy's thin chest rises and falls shallowly, quick as panic.

"I'm sorry," Alexander blurts, reaching the wrong conclusion. "I shouldn't have—"

"Don't apologize," Washington interrupts, firm but not angry. How could he possibly be angry at Alexander for demanding the one thing he is most desperate for. " _Say it again_."

Alexander swallows. Juts his chin as though hoping the gesture will loan him the strength of defiance. Repeats himself with an edge of gravel.

"Fuck me."

It's honestly difficult to think, but Washington fights to keep his head above water. He needs to navigate carefully; find exactly the right balance of reluctance and willingness to convey. He doesn't want to chase away such a delicious request, but he doesn't dare come across too eager. Alexander will remember every detail of this encounter, and Washington needs to project a unified and unassailable impression of the man he pretends to be.

He shakes his head and offers a wobbly smile. "My dear boy, you don't really want that."

It is the perfect thing to say. It clips the vulnerable edges of Alexander's pride and makes him clench his jaw in more genuine defiance. Stubborn. Alexander is always up for a challenge.

"Don't tell me what I want. You're not the one with an artificial fever tearing you apart." When Washington only watches him silently, Alexander takes on a more pleading tone. "You're still hard. Can't you just— Fuck, all I've been able to think about for the past goddamn hour is having your cock inside me."

Washington stifles a delighted groan—just barely—and says, "Are you sure?"

" _Please_ ," Alexander rasps.

And oh, how could even a disinterested man refuse such a plea? It takes all of Washington's fading willpower not to rut forward into the space between Alexander's legs. A slow inhale, and he strokes the fingers of his clean hand through his boy's hair. Smoothing the loose tangles, brushing the strands back along the pillow. Alexander shivers at the softer contact, the incongruously affectionate gesture.

"Tell me first, Alexander," Washington asks in what he hopes is a serious tone. "Are you a virgin?"

"No." The answer comes too quickly. Defensive. Not untrue, but also not an entirely candid reply.

Washington peers down into his face with pointed determination and asks the question a different way. "Have you ever had someone's cock inside you?" Too blunt for clever evasions, and he knows with complete confidence that his boy will not lie to him directly.

He has his assumptions. The tightness around his fingers. The way Alexander startled at being penetrated, despite knowing full well what Washington intended. The surprised reaction could have been purely discomfort, regardless of the boy's experience, but Washington suspects otherwise. He suspects genuine shock at unfamiliar sensation.

Alexander's face colors so brightly that even in the dim room Washington can see the flush spreading all the way down to his chest. The glint of defiance banks.

This time a smaller voice answers, "No. I've never done that."

Washington crafts a different expression on his own face. Two fifths worry, three fifths guilt. "Did I hurt you before? With my fingers?"

"Sir, please." Alexander is begging outright now, sidestepping the question. "I want you to fuck me. You said whatever I need."

But Washington refuses to allow the evasion. "Did I hurt you?" There is steel in the question this time. He needs the boy to believe that a failure to answer will result in flat refusal, even though there's no chance at all Washington will resist the chance to put his cock in the boy—a prospect all the more delicious for the territorial knowledge that he will be the first.

Alexander breathes a helpless sound and finally admits, "Yeah."

"I'm sorry," Washington says with a remarkably convincing approximation of sincerity.

"It doesn't matter. I can take it. Fuck, I _want_ to take it."

"I could hurt you even worse, Alexander." The idea is, frankly, sublime. If Alexander is already sore just from a couple of fingers, imagine the ache tomorrow after being impaled on Washington's cock. He won't take the boy dry—he laid in other supplies when he had the drug delivered—but it's a lovely fantasy. Perhaps someday. For now he keeps his tone level and cautious. "We might not even have what I'd need to make it good."

"We do," Alexander blurts. "In the nightstand."

Washington quirks a deliberate eyebrow, and Alexander has the wherewithal to look sheepish. He's honestly impressed his boy thought far enough ahead to _check the available supplies_. Alexander must be truly desperate.

"You were asleep for a really long time," Alexander says as though he needs to justify himself.

"You could have woken me sooner." But that's not the point, and Washington does not linger on it. "Are you sure about this? Truly?"

"God yes," Alexander breathes fervently, tone leaving no room whatsoever to doubt his sincerity. "Do it— _please_ —I need you."


	7. Chapter 7

Washington makes a point of hesitating a moment longer. Then, instead of agreeing aloud, he leans down and presses a lingering kiss to Alexander's forehead. A protective gesture, and not even a calculated one, but rather a burst of affection he cannot contain. He will give what is being asked of him, but it will also be the satisfaction Washington has craved so long he _burns_ with the desire to claim what Alexander is offering.

"Sir?" Alexander asks when Washington rises to kneel between his splayed legs. "Sir, does that mean— Will you?"

"Yes," Washington says warmly. "But you will have to be patient. If we're doing this, we are doing it right. I don't want to damage you."

Alexander's throat bobs and his eyes close for a quick heartbeat. "Okay." When his eyes flutter open again, they are clouded with lust. "I can be good. Patient. I can wait."

"Do I have your word, Alexander? You won't try to rush me? You'll let me do this properly?"

"I promise. God, I swear I'll be good, please touch me."

It is not at all a patient tone. Not in keeping with the promise being made, but Washington does not care. This particular vow is irrelevant; he will fuck his boy regardless. And he is determined to draw the process out as long as possible, to take his boy thoroughly apart and make him wait. To hold out until Alexander is incoherent with need before giving him the satisfaction.

"Okay." He strokes a soothing hand along Alexander's bare flank. "Where are these supplies you found?"

"Nightstand," Alexander repeats. "Top drawer."

Of course Washington already knows where to find what he needs. He couldn't be certain what tonight's intimacies would entail, and failure to prepare would have interfered with his plans.

He collects a single, generous bottle of lubricant from the drawer and returns his attention to Alexander. His boy hasn't moved from where Washington put him on his back. Alexander's eyes track every shift. The tip of his tongue darts out to lick reddened lips, and Washington's cock gives an eager twitch at the sight. His boy is beautiful to behold. Naked, eager, cock curved and leaking precome against the soft line of his stomach.

Washington considers summoning more light, but in the end opts not to indulge himself. He still has a carefully crafted fiction to maintain, and enjoying Alexander openly would shatter the illusion.

He sets the bottle down on the bedspread and holds steady eye contact. Asking this next question is a small risk, but it _is_ a risk. An unnecessary offer. Though even this he can couch in terms of making things good for Alexander.

"Would you prefer me naked?" He injects an awkwardness he does not feel into the question. A dubious tone to convey that he is only trying his best, that he is not asking for his own sake, that he only wants to give Alexander whatever will help.

The blush creeps even farther across Alexander's chest, and his eyes cut guiltily downward—skimming Washington's body as though staring straight through soft fabric.

"It's all right, Alexander. I wouldn't have asked if it troubled me. You don't have to overthink this."

"Yes," Alexander blurts with thoughtless heat. "Yes, I want that. _Fuck_ I want it."

Washington drags his shirt off and discards it with a toss, not caring where it lands. Alexander's eyes widen and the pink tip of his tongue sneaks out again. He wets dry lips and doesn't even pretend not to stare. The obvious hunger goes straight to Washington's cock, and this is going to be its own brand of torture. Patience will require every scrap of willpower, but Washington must resist the urge to simply pin Alexander to the mattress and force his cock into the boy.

He reaches for the drawstring of his pants and the sleek material slips in his fingers. By the time he's completely naked, his blood is _singing_ to get his hands on the eager body beneath him.

Alexander has propped himself up on both elbows to watch Washington maneuver. His mouth is ajar, his face slack with want.

"Lie back," Washington orders. "Let me take care of you." He wonders how much longer they have before the drug runs its course. The information with which he measured the dose was imprecise at best. By his estimate, the effects should begin to taper off around dawn, but it could be longer—which means aside from preparing his boy as thoroughly as possible, there is an additional advantage to drawing things out.

Washington's own un-drugged stamina aside, they cannot continue like this much longer. Even with the pulse of artificial need coursing through him, Alexander will cross into overstimulation eventually, will begin to straddle a complicated line between pleasure and pain.

Not a disaster, and certainly not a hardship on Washington's part, but the fallout come tomorrow will be messier. The events of tonight will be traumatic enough in Alexander's memory even if every sensation is pleasurable. The addition of pain could derail Washington's more distant plans—the trap he is laying to draw the boy inexorably closer—and he would prefer not to risk it.

But this—the maddeningly slow preparation he is about to begin— _this_ he can do for ages. The only limitations are Alexander's ability to hold on and Washington's diminishing patience.

He reaches for the lube, and Alexander immediately moves as though to roll onto his stomach. Washington should allow it, but instead he catches the boy's hip to stop him.

"Sir?" Alexander's brow creases.

"Stay on your back. I need to see your face, to be sure I'm not hurting you." A thin pretext, if plausible enough. He does not need to see Alexander's face when every gasp and moan and shudder is so impossibly expressive.

Alexander's brow smoothes, and his head dips in a nod. Washington's hand slips down to squeeze his thigh, nudging upward.

"Lie back and spread your legs," he orders. "Try to relax. Trust me."

"I do trust you." Alexander breathes out and obeys the command.

The lubricant is cool on Washington's skin. It feels expensive and slick, and he coats his fingers liberally. Curls his other hand around Alexander's cock and gives an idle stroke—a deliberate distraction—as he circles a single wet finger around the rim of Alexander's ass and then, as gently as he can, presses inside.

Alexander's breath hitches at the intrusion, but his arousal doesn't flag. He spreads his legs wider, back arching as the digit slides deeper. His hands twist in the bedspread to either side of him. Narrow hips stutter without purpose or conscious direction. The boy is alarmingly tight inside, and Washington entertains a brief fantasy of removing his finger, slicking his cock, and fucking in just like this.

Even with copious lubricant, the result would be agony for Alexander's inexperienced body, and Washington imagines him screaming and thrashing. Struggling to escape, helpless beneath the powerful hands and bulk pinning him down.

It is a fantasy Washington has entertained countless times. He's never been quite so near temptation.

"All right?" he asks, tucking the fantasy safely away where Alexander won't see it reflected in his eyes. He crooks his finger, stroking pressure over Alexander's prostate. The result is an immediate whine, and his boy blinks at him foggily before giving an enthusiastic nod.

Washington resists the urge to immediately force a second finger in alongside the first. He moves more slowly, more careful than before. Working with all the gradual slowness he is determined to maintain. By the time he introduces a second finger, Alexander is arching half off the bed, pleading to be fucked, sobbing with the force of his need. Alexander's cock is diamond hard despite the fact that Washington has long since stopped touching it, for fear of setting him off too soon.

" _Please_ ," Alexander gasps, "I'm ready; stop teasing and—"

" _Not yet_ , my boy," Washington admonishes, even though refusal is beginning to feel pointless. Alexander is still tight around his fingers, but Washington's own impatience is potent. He has never been so desperate for anything in his life, as he is to get his cock in this brash and far too trusting young man. He clings to his own crumbling resolve, focuses on how delightful it is to watch Alexander come apart from nothing but two fingers twisting inside him.

Alexander is crying. Begging as though for his very life, staring at Washington as though every second without a cock inside him is literal torture.

The eternity stretches longer. An eon of holding back, nothing but Alexander's obvious torment giving Washington the strength to resist.

He doesn't bother introducing a third finger. Two is enough. Alexander is as loose as he is going to get. Washington withdraws his fingers and uses more lube to slick his naked cock. Alexander's eyes have gone distant, breath shaky.

"Are you ready?" Washington asks.

Dark eyes clear, just a little. " _Do it_."


	8. Chapter 8

Washington wipes his hand as dry as he can manage on the bedspread, the better to force Alexander's thighs even wider apart. The stretch is uncomfortable, judging by the expressive gasp, but Alexander offers no actual protest as Washington moves into position. He has to take himself in hand to line up properly, and even so the blunt head catches at the rim of Alexander's ass—requires an extra push to breach his boy—the inexperienced body no match for the girth of an erect cock.

This time the sound Alexander breathes is unmistakably pain, but Washington eases forward anyway. Gently. Letting his weight hold Alexander in place as he sinks relentlessly deeper. With one hand he presses Alexander's thigh away from his body, keeping him as wide open as possible. With the other he holds one of Alexander's wrists to the pillow above their heads, loosely enough his boy could easily wriggle free.

Alexander makes no such attempt.

"Breathe, Alexander," Washington admonishes—then shoves soundly forward, burying his cock all the way to the root.

Alexander throws his head back and cries out as he's filled, clearly overwhelmed by the suddenness of it. Shaking beneath Washington's body. Nearly hyperventilating, he's sucking air into his lungs so fast.

Washington stills, savoring every sensation. Not just the tightness of virgin muscle sheathing his cock, but subtler sensations. The pounding heartbeat he can feel where their chests are pressed together. The snug fit of his bulk between trembling thighs. The uncertain twist of the thin wrist, now trapped more firmly in his hand.

The guileless, breathless sounds that Washington is certain Alexander will deny later.

A heartbeat passes in imperfect stillness, and then Washington braces himself up on one elbow and peers into Alexander's face. It seems to take a whole new eternity for dark eyes to blink and focus on him. Another eon for Alexander to really _see him_.

"Are you in pain?" Washington asks now that he has the boy's attention.

Alexander swallows hard. "It's good. Don't stop."

Honesty perhaps, but not truly an answer to the question. Washington finds he doesn't care that Alexander has deliberately evaded the query. He likes the boy's response far better than he would appreciate a more candid one. It gives him all the permission he needs to draw his hips back and fuck forward again. A little harder, a little less careful.

He measures his pace as long as he can bear to. And when his fading control finally snaps, he wraps his arms around his boy and begins to rut in brutal earnest. He buries a groan in Alexander's throat when splayed legs rise to wrap around his waist, ankles hooking together at the small of Washington's back and one heel digging in hard. Not urging him faster—there's no need for that when Washington is already pounding his prey fiercely into the mattress—but holding on with a helpless desperation that makes Washington's blood burn hot.

Alexander's arms have wrapped around Washington's shoulders, and here too he holds on as though there is nothing else to ground him. His breaths choke out shocky and uneven, and there are no words from him now. He is nothing but a body begging to be fucked, and Washington is delighted to oblige.

Considering how many times Alexander has come tonight—and how long Washington has waited for his chance—he honestly expects the boy to outlast him. He is shocked when Alexander proves him wrong, spilling between their stomachs with a shattered cry.

And oh, Washington cannot stop now. He should—he vowed to make this _good_ for Alexander—to follow the strategy he has so carefully been laying. And now, post-orgasm, the sensation of a hard cock still ramming between straining thighs can only be agony.

But rational thought is well out of Washington's reach as he approaches his own shaky precipice. He fucks in harder still, savoring every stifled whimper, every gasp and grunt and sharp inhale.

When at last Washington comes, he barely resists the urge to catch tender skin between his teeth to stifle his wild groan. Such a helpless sound—Washington does not like to appear helpless—but he allows it to escape, barely muffled where he presses his face to one shaking shoulder.

_Fuck_ , he has _never_ known ecstasy like this.

He's slow to come down, and slower still to ease his softening cock out of Alexander.

His boy's legs drop from where they circle him, splaying awkwardly, thoughtlessly as Washington dismounts. Alexander's arms are bent atop the mattress, fingers twisting in the bedspread. His mouth is ajar, his chest rising and falling heavily.

His open eyes stare at Washington with the strangest mix of gratitude and hesitation.

Washington rises onto his knees and dons a look of guilty chagrin. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have— I got carried away." He shakes his head. "This was a terrible idea."

"Stop that." Alexander sits up, moving slowly to accommodate new and unfamiliar discomfort. "You only gave me what I asked for. It was good. You didn't hurt me."

Washington quirks a dubious eyebrow, and Alexander huffs.

"Fine. You hurt me. That doesn't mean you fucked up."

Washington shakes his head as though dispelling the vestiges of guilt. "I think that's a conversation for later. For now, how do you feel?" He reaches out and presses the back of his hand to Alexander's forehead. Still feverish. "Is it any better?"

"I can't tell," Alexander admits. "It's _always_ better after you touch me, but then it starts again. Just as bad as before. But I think… It feels a little different this time. Maybe that's good?"

Washington pushes himself toward the edge of the bed. "You should try to sleep more."

"Where are you going?" Alexander sounds on the verge of panic as he jerks forward to follow.

Quick as a heartbeat Washington is back at Alexander's side, urging him down. Shushing and soothing. "I'm just going to clean up, and then send a comm to postpone tomorrow's negotiation. Neither one of us will be in any condition to make sound business decisions in the morning."

"Oh." Alexander looks embarrassed at his outburst. He settles back against the pillows, shifting a little—toward Washington's side of the bed—in order to avoid the brand new wet spot dampening the blankets.

" _Sleep_ ," Washington urges more sternly. "I won't be gone long. I promise."

Alexander is soundly unconscious when he returns to bed. Washington touches the back of his hand to Alexander's forehead and finds the skin cooler. Not quite normal, but closer than it's been all night. The fever has finally broken. His boy is out of danger, and he does not wake when Washington slips close behind him and wraps Alexander in his arms.

The knowledge is both relief and disappointment. Washington's own exhaustion rises as soon as he closes his eyes, fog twining and curling around him, and dreams quickly dragging him down.


	9. Chapter 9

When Washington wakes, he is alone. The bed is a rumpled mess around him, and sunlight streaks with a convincing illusion of warmth through tall windows. The very edges of that sunlight have crept across his face, and perhaps it's the glaring brightness through his eyelids that has woken him.

He stirs and considers the empty space Alexander should occupy. The boy was a cooling inferno in his arms when he fell asleep. There are any number of reasons for him to be gone from Washington's bed now that he's recovered from the chemical ordeal, anything from a panic attack to simply not wanting to be near his employer.

Every instinct urges Washington to burst into the main room and reassure himself that Alexander is still here.

He forces himself to move more deliberately instead. Into the washroom to muddle his exhausted way through the usual morning routine. A longer than usual shower, necessary and calming. Clean clothing, the trousers perfectly pressed, the shirt stiff and new. No socks, no tie, no suit jacket. He won't be emerging from this penthouse to meet his professional obligations today, so those details are of little use.

Alexander certainly won't expect Washington to be wearing a full suit of armor just to face _him_.

The chronometer panel beside the door proclaims that it's nearly ten o'clock. Washington did not intend to sleep so long, and he's annoyed with himself for the lapse. How long ago did Alexander leave his bed? What faulty conclusions have been drawn in the intervening hours?

Washington emerges into the wide main room with its wall-length windows and elegant furnishings. Unlike those in the bedroom, these windows have tinted to block out the most vicious rays of sunlight. The quiet is so complete Washington almost bypasses Alexander on his way to the smaller suite—but he stops short when he realizes the boy has fallen asleep across one of the plush couches at the center of the room.

A quick detour and Washington rounds the couch and eases down onto both knees before him.

Alexander has obviously bathed and dressed, and just like Washington has eschewed jacket and tie in favor of the more accommodating strictures of business casual. He lies on his stomach with his face smushed into the upholstery. His data device is wedged between his forearm and the couch cushion, but the angle is precarious. The device will fall to the floor with only the smallest shift in position.

A fall so short won't do any damage, but Washington rescues it anyway. A downward glance and he sees the contract language they were discussing last night open on the default screen. The projected screens would have shut down with no one to read them, but the device itself continues active. Washington's chest tightens with exasperated fondness. Of course his boy gravitated right back to work; and of course he fell asleep in the middle of his efforts. Both of these facts possess a distinctly inevitable flavor.

"Alexander." He curls a hand around a bony shoulder and gives a gentle shake. Tempting as it is to allow himself to enjoy the view—even in this inelegant sprawl Alexander is beautiful—there's no point postponing what is necessary. He has damage control to do, and until Alexander wakes there is no ascertaining the contours of the harm done.

Alexander breathes a sharper inhale and a moment later dark eyes snap open, instantly alert. He must not expect Washington to be so close, because he gives a jerk toward the back of the couch. Washington withdraws his touch quickly now that Alexander is awake. He moves away from the couch, physically distancing himself. Rather than rise from the floor, he sits with his back to the nearly identical couch facing Alexander. He tucks his legs to his chest and cradles the data device on his knees. Making himself as nonthreatening as possible.

He is almost certain Alexander will stand up and put even more distance between them, but a moment later Alexander settles back down. Right where he is. Folding his arms beneath his head and regarding Washington with unreadable eyes.

And. Well. Considering how wrong-footed and unsteady Alexander must feel right now—considering his potent and prickly pride—the fact that he stays put speaks volumes.

Washington does not for a single moment consider a less blunt approach, though he measures his tone carefully. "Are you in pain?"

"It's not so bad." The answer is belied by the rise of heat staining Alexander's cheeks, and by the poorly executed poker face.

"Alexander." Just enough admonishment creeps into Washington's tone. "If you're not honest with me, I _will_ summon the staff medic."

He is met with a petulant glare and silence.

Washington arches an eyebrow high, calling his boy's stubborn bluff.

Alexander huffs and closes his eyes. "Fine. My ass hurts like hell. But I don't need a goddamn medic, and if you call one I'll throw them straight out the window."

"The windows on this floor are reinforced transparisteel and they do not open."

Alexander's eyes crack open and his glare intensifies.

Washington considers a plethora of paths forward and finally molds his expression into something both hesitant and somber. He regards Alexander for a long time as though carefully considering his words. Patience. He needs to tread carefully if he wants to forge this experience into something useful.

Before he manages to speak—not that he is rushing to do so—Alexander says, "I know you're about to insist we talk about last night. But, just for the sake of argument, what if we tried _not_ doing that?" There's is something uncharacteristically fragile beneath the familiar bravado. A vulnerable edge that makes Washington want to drag Alexander into his lap and tuck him close, hold and protect and soothe him.

Rather than follow the more predictable tack of digging his heels in and proving Alexander right, Washington asks, "Is that really what you want, Alexander? To not discuss what happened?"

The question seems to catch his boy off guard. Expressive eyes widen—delicate brows rise high and crinkle the smooth forehead. Alexander shifts self-consciously on the couch cushions, but he still makes no move to sit up. He seems to be trying to decide whether or not Washington will truly let him evade the painful conversation they need to have.

After a strained several seconds, Alexander admits, "I don't know what I want."

Washington watches without flinching. Lets concern, affection, doubt creep into his face. A heady mix of things he knows damn well will drive Alexander to distraction.

He is not disappointed. After barely a minute of silence, Alexander heaves a low groan and buries his face in his arms. The words are muffled when he snaps, "God, stop looking at me like that."

Time for another calculated risk. Washington eases onto his knees and sets the data device aside. Crosses the narrow patch of floor and puts his back to Alexander's couch. He is still sitting on the ground, in the very same pose as before, but he is close enough he could reach up and _touch_ now. Close enough Alexander can touch him. And all under the guise of breaking eye contact. He wraps his arms loosely around his bent knees and tilts his head back against the high cushion.

"Is this better?" he asks.

The sacrifice of not being able to _see_ Alexander is worth it for the sound of steadier breathing, and the hint of body heat behind him. It will be more difficult to maneuver without visual cues, but if this positioning puts Alexander at ease then it's worth the heightened challenge. Washington knows his boy well; not all of Alexander's tells are visual.

"If you want us to talk about this shit, you're gonna have to start." Alexander's words are no longer muffled, but they still carry thin bravado over a hesitant core. There is something wounded running like an undercurrent beneath.

Washington prays he can harness that current. 

Alexander draws a ragged breath and, despite his assertion, continues, "I don't know how to— Where do we even fucking _go_ from here? Are _you_ okay?"

A simple, honest answer would be _Yes_. Washington is more than okay. He is loose-limbed and satisfied and his only regret is that he cannot touch his boy _right now_.

He allows none of this into his tone. "I want to be completely clear with you, Alexander. What happened last night was _not your fault_ , and I don't regret taking care of you. I don't regret a single thing if it kept you safe."

"Not even fucking me?" Alexander asks in a voice so low Washington barely hears him.

Washington lets the silence prolong uncomfortably. Keeps his shoulders stiff and stares at the corner of the ceiling across the room. He holds perfectly still and allows Alexander to reach all the worst conclusions, before finally opening his mouth to answer.

"I don't know a delicate way to put this." He twines audible strain and reluctance into every syllable. "So please forgive my bluntness. But fucking you was not a hardship. Even if it were, it's a cost I would readily have paid. You are _not expendable_."

The sharp inhale that meets his admission could signal so many things. A reaction to the more personal confession, surprise at how adamant Washington is that losing his boy is not an option. It's possible Alexander feels betrayed; there _is_ an element of risk to what Washington has just confessed. It's entirely possible his candor will backfire.

Alexander is quiet for a long time, but Washington does not rush him. Let him think it through and reach his own conclusions. If he is angry, better to have the fact out in the open where Washington can begin to dismantle the response piece by piece.

But Alexander sounds more disbelieving than angry when he says, "You _wanted_ to fuck me?"

Washington measures out deliberate hesitation before asking, "Is it really so surprising? You're distractingly attractive, Alexander. I'm sure you notice the way people look at you."

"Yeah, but _not you_ ," Alexander protests helplessly. "You're different."

"Because I'm your employer." Washington shrugs. "It would be inappropriate to let my personal inclinations affect our working relationship. It is _still_ inappropriate. Our present circumstances are… not ideal."

The lie flows across his tongue with all the smoothness of an expensive wine. Their present circumstances are _perfect_. He can practically taste his boy, can imagine the path before them. He doesn't know if Alexander is sexually attracted to him—if he ever imagined Washington touching him before the disastrous night they just spent together—but it very nearly does not matter. Alexander is devoted to him. And grateful, even if his feelings about last night are a tumultuous mess. Given time, distance, and an enormous amount of care, it will be laughably simple to draw the boy in closer.

Washington is so confident that he presses immediately onward. "If this changes things… If you no longer wish to work for me… I'll understand. I won't try to stop you from pursuing other options. You will have my full support, whatever recommendations you need."

" _What_?" If Alexander sounded disbelieving before, he sounds completely aghast now. "Sir!"

It's a summons, however clumsy. Washington drops his gaze to the floor instead of turning his head. When a desperate hand closes on his shoulder, he turns his head deliberately away. Not just avoiding eye contact, but making a show of not being able to _look_ at his boy. His posture is tense and he tightens his arms where they still circle his folded knees.

Alexander breathes a frustrated sound, and then there is a scuffle of movement from the couch. Quick as a breath Alexander slides to the floor, kneeling directly in Washington's line of sight. The effort clearly costs him. The maneuver is far from graceful—all the stiffness of pain—and though Alexander tries to keep quiet, he can't quite stifle the choked sound he makes when he lands.

Washington still can't see his boy's face—his downcast gaze is locked somewhere in the vicinity of Alexander's left hip—but he can imagine what he will find. Frantic questions. A glimmer of unaccustomed helplessness. Alexander is unmoored and drifting. He could not be pleading more plainly for Washington to guide him back to solid ground.

"Sir, please look at me." There is bald hurt in the entreaty.

With calculated stubbornness, Washington keeps his head down. He tenses his shoulders, manages a flinch.

Alexander's hand is shaking when it curls beneath his jaw and urges his chin up. Washington doesn't resist the tug of pressure. He finds wetness in Alexander's eyes, and an expression so fierce it sets his skin tingling. Alexander's hand shifts to cup his jaw at a gentler angle, but does not fall away. The shaking eases. Alexander's hand is surprisingly warm against his skin.

"Is that what—" Alexander starts and falters, forces himself to begin again. "Do you want me gone?"

Washington blinks and unwraps the tight circle of his arms, twists so that he is facing Alexander more directly. "My dear boy, of course I don't want that. You're the best assistant I've ever had the honor to work with. You are _essential_ to me." He covers Alexander's hand with his own, holds on tighter than he should. "But if my… _interest_ in you is a problem, it's not as though you can simply pretend not to know. You are far too clever for such exercises in self-delusion."

"And you'd really do that?" Alexander breathes. "You'd… write me recommendations? Help me find a different position?"

"If that's what you need, Alexander." It's an easy promise to make, certain as Washington is that his boy will never take him up on the offer.

"What if I want to stay?"


	10. Chapter 10

Washington allows just a sliver of relief to shine in his face before hiding any such tells behind an impenetrable wall. "Then of course you can stay. Nothing needs to change. My personal feelings will remain at exactly the same remove as they have always been."

"And if things get weird anyway?"

"Then the offer stands. I'll see you situated somewhere less… complicated." He only reiterates the offer because he is entirely confident Alexander will never take him up on it.

Alexander's gaze searches his restlessly. The hand at Washington's jaw withdraws, slipping from his grasp. Falling to rest atop Alexander's knee.

Washington lets his own arm fall, unfolding his legs—he is beginning to ache from sitting on the floor—and slouches more comfortably against the front edge of the couch.

"You care about me," Alexander says, and there is a flash of something like wonder in the words. "All this time we've been working together, and I didn't… You're always so formal. But you really do give a fuck about me."

Washington offers a rueful smile. "I don't make a habit of getting attached to my employees. I'm a CEO, not a den mother. Affection and favoritism are not assets."

"Affection?" Alexander echoes the word like he has to say it aloud to wrap his head around the idea. He is hovering closer now than a moment before. Encroaching on Washington's space so gradually it can't possibly be intentional.

Washington sobers. "Is that so difficult to believe?"

"I just never thought… I mean… You're _you_. And I'm nobody."

Another gamble: a baring of teeth in a soundless snarl to give Alexander a glimpse of genuine anger. He reaches for both of Alexander's biceps and grips hard, pulling him off balance. Alexander gasps and falls forward, catching himself against Washington's chest.

"Do not _ever_ talk about yourself that way." Furious heat coats the words, earning a startled stare and perhaps a sliver of fear.

Washington counts silently to three, then makes a show of recovering himself. Widening eyes, loosening hands. He can't move away without letting Alexander fall, but he glances down at his hands before withdrawing them. Alexander's palms are hot against his chest, and when Washington looks up he finds the boy staring hard into his face.

"I'm sorry," Washington says, giddy at the fact that Alexander has not immediately pushed away from him. "I shouldn't have— You are _not nobody_. Don't ever think that."

He sets his hands at Alexander's hips but only to nudge him back. Ease him out of Washington's space. He guides his stunned boy to sit against the couch.

Alexander's eyes flinch shut and he hisses a low, pained noise when his ass hits the hard floor. Washington feels a faint pang at the sound. He didn't intend to cause renewed discomfort. It was an honest miscalculation.

Still useful perhaps.

He furrows his brow. "I'm calling the medic."

Alexander's eyes fly open. " _No_."

"You're in agony, Alexander." He shifts his weight and takes his hands off the boy, signaling his intention to stand.

"I don't need a medic!" Alexander grasps Washington's arms, trying to keep him down. It's almost comedic; even on a good day Alexander does not have the physical strength to overpower his employer. Today, aching and exhausted, the attempt is a particularly poor joke.

"This is not a discussion. You're badly hurt—"

Again he moves as though determined to stand. He's curious what Alexander will do, even though he does not truly care whether Alexander concedes the point. Medic or not, the physical harms will heal soon enough. If his stubborn boy is determined to spend the interim in pain, who is Washington to dissuade him?

Alexander moves impressively quickly considering the sore state of him. A new, louder shout of, " _No_!" cuts through the quiet room, and in the span of a blink he has thrown himself into Washington's lap to keep him grounded. Those skinny legs straddled Washington's thighs, unexpected heat, and Washington stares at his boy in completely genuine shock.

" _Alexander_ ," he protests, and his hands hover in the air, not certain if it's wise to touch. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

The boy is trembling again—his current position can't possibly be comfortable—but there is fiery determination in his glower. His palms press warm to Washington's chest again, and his knees dig into Washington's hips.

Washington at last picks a place for his hands to settle, curling to either side of Alexander's waist. "Get off of me."

Dark eyes narrow. "Only after you promise not to call the medic."

"For god's sake, your pride is not worth the sacrifice of your physical wellbeing!"

He expects an immediate retort, but instead Alexander blinks at him as though he has said something unexpected. Strange, to feel even momentarily as though _he_ is the one off-balance, but he's at a loss to explain Alexander's surprise.

"What's wrong?" He asks the question cautiously. He does not _like_ asking questions to which he doesn't already know the answers.

Alexander catches his own lower lip between his teeth, worries at it for a hesitant moment.

"Talk to me," Washington says, voice pitched soft and low and careful.

"I'm not being prideful," Alexander starts uncertainly. "This isn't… I'm not _embarrassed_."

"Then why are you refusing the help you need?"

"Because I'm a fucking _mess_! A medic's gonna take one look at me and think—" Alexander's words hitch, and he swallows hard, averts his eyes. Stares at his own hands as he haltingly continues, "The hotel security system tracks when we come and go. They're gonna know I was here with you all night. _Alone_. They're gonna assume…"

Alexander's whole body shudders as he tapers off, unable to speak the final words. The smartest thing—and the kindest thing—would be to let the implication dissipate unspoken.

But some morbid, compulsive curiosity compels Washington to murmur, "You fear they'll accuse me of rape."

Alexander chokes an awful sound—a gagging whimper—and curls forward against Washington's chest, hiding in the collar of his shirt and sucking in a shaky breath.

Washington resists the nearly overpowering desire to wrap his arms around his boy. He has already pushed too hard; he can't afford to make Alexander feel trapped after pulling the rug out from under him. He can't tell if Alexander is crying, but he raises a hand to cradle the back of his neck anyway. Strokes soothing fingers through staticky strands of hair.

"It's all right, Alexander. You're not thinking this through. No one is going to arrest me."

"But they could." Alexander mumbles the words into Washington's shirt. "They'll think you hurt me."

"I did hurt you," Washington points out in a far too reasonable voice, thrilling at the way Alexander curls tighter against him, the wetness beginning to soak his shirt collar. Tears. Alexander _is_ crying.

"Don't say that," Alexander hisses. His hands clench in the thin shirt fabric.

"It's the simple truth." Washington shrugs, because Alexander can't fail to feel the gesture jostling him where he's plastered along Washington's front. "I meant what I said before. I have no regrets. But that doesn't mean I have any delusions about what happened between us last night."

"If they take you away—"

" _They won't_ ," Washington insists more forcefully. " _Think_ , Alexander. Even if they assume the worst, you're here to tell them what really happened. You won't let any harm come to me."

"Never," Alexander agrees, breathless and shaky.

"Then there's no need to panic. And _no reason_ to torment yourself. Let me call the medic, Alexander. _I_ will feel better knowing your injuries have been tended."

Alexander only buries his face more securely at the join of Washington's neck and shoulder.

Washington huffs an exasperated sound and takes gentle but deliberate hold of Alexander's upper arms. He uses the leverage to push his boy more or less upright, ducking his head to catch Alexander's reluctant gaze. He straightens only once he has Alexander's full attention.

"Please?" Washington frames Alexander's tear-smudged face with both hands. "If not for yourself, do this for me. I need to know you're okay."

He's startled when Alexander tips forward to press their foreheads together. Alexander's eyes flutter shut and his lips part on a slow exhale. The warmth of his breath ghosts across Washington's lips, making it difficult to resist changing their respective angles _just so_ and claiming a tentative kiss. He manages to keep himself in check—to keep still—and wait for an answer.

"Okay," Alexander says at last. "You can call the medic." He sounds so tired and trusting, and Washington's heart swells with the need to possess this stubborn, incautious, improbable young man. Last night's violent claiming has not taken the edge off; it has only whetted his appetite.

He prays he will not need to wait long for the dam to break, and for Alexander to come to _him_.

For now, he guides Alexander's head down and presses a long kiss to the boy's feverish brow. Alexander allows the gesture, even though it lasts far longer than it should.

When Washington eases back, Alexander's eyes are noticeably wet, and redder than they were before.

"Thank you," Washington says softly. Then, more sternly, "Now get the hell off me."

Alexander scrambles to comply, flinching as the movement draws attention to myriad hurts.

Washington pretends not to notice as he rises from the floor and heads for the comm panel on the nearest wall. Watchful eyes follow him across the room, and he suppresses an inopportune smile. There will be time enough later to plan his next move.

For now he will take care of his boy; everything else can wait.

THE END


End file.
